Independence Day
By Jafa

She is all hard and no soft, metallic and modern, wearing skintight blue, sparkly pants and a silvery midriff-showing top.

That's how I remember her from last early fall. Her name is Davi, and she's sitting in a place called XandO, eating a S'mores bar and drinking a chocolate shake.

"I like to live dangerously," she says.

No fat is on this girl. Not when I see her last September. Her stomach is flat flat flat, her thighs straight, her arms ropey and strong.

But last night, after the fireworks and out of the rain, Davi sits in a bar on Third Avenue, fat and smiley, all hugs and kisses.

"I'm so glad to see you," she says. "What are you doing here?"

I was visiting with friends, I tell her. Trying to see the fireworks -- over the river and from a roof on 33rd and 3rd. I mimick my grandpa Joe's Brooklynese: "toidy-toid and toid," I say. Then I point to the sky: "But up there." Then I introduce my friend Robyn from upstate. She's been tagging along all day.

Davi can't help but notice my stare and begins to cover up a little. She hunches over, pulls and tucks, crosses her arms to hide her full and round tummy. Finally, she gives up.

"Fat, huh?" And she spins around, arms up, modeling her fuller figure for me. Robyn, my longtime friend, knows what you all know, but what I try to keep secret. She leans into me and whispers "Down, boy," into my ear. I respond just under my breath with "Shut up, Skinny."

We take seats, crowding a table with the rest of Davi's party. Introductions all around: Kate says hi; so does Terri. Carl and Melissa wave. Jorge shakes hands. And then we meet Andrew, a big guy with short short hair, who's looks up to smile over the top of the menu.

"Mozzarella sticks?" he asks. Then to the waitress who's come over with pad and pencil: "Double mozzarella sticks, wings, and two more pitchers." Andrew doubletakes Robyn and me. "You two want beer, right."

Before I can answer, Davi leans into Andrew. "Love Pump," she says, "we just ate dinner an hour ago."

Robyn leans into me with "Love Pump?"

Andrew, a big guy with a big gut, puts a big hand on Davi's tummy and says, "Never go to bed hungry." Then he turns to Robyn and me: "Besides, we're in training. We're going to the beach next week."

Robyn looks at me. "Do I hear denim ripping?"

"Shut up," I say. "And, anyway, I'm not wearing jeans."

Davi shifts a little in her seat. "Andrew has unique tastes."

"I can see that," I say, trying to be careful about which line I'm crossing.

Andrew raises a fist in the air and yells out "Fat chicks rule!" and it seems that everyone in the bar cheers along with him.

"Well," Robyn says when the noise dies away, "Jimbo over here lives by the rule 'never let your waist size exceed your inseam.'"

Davi absently rubs her stomach. "I think I broke that rule sometime ago," she says. Then she laughs a little and says: "My new rule -- as of tonight -- is don't let my thighs measure more than what my waist was."

Andrew glances down at Davi's thighs and clears his throat. "Yeah," he says. "Right."

"What?" Davi says.

"I think you broke that rule sometime ago," Andrew says, mimicking her.

The food comes and Davi is the first to grab a wing. "Jerk," she says just under her breath. But then she gives him this cute sideways glance, smiles, and I can see that she truly loves this big man.

Then she bites into her chicken wing, closes her eyes and smiles very, very wide. And I can see that she truly loves her new, big self.